The solar wind that sweeps

across the moon

blows no dust

and makes no noise.

Meteorites land

more quietly there

than feathers fall here.
Our gift to the moon was

all that noise inside the Eagle,

the click of switches,

the dragging of pencils,

the sliding of zippers,

boot-scrape and impatient sighs.
As the Michelin moon-men

left their lunar campervan

and stepped down backwards

onto the iceblock silence

of the frigid grey dust

there was no clang on the ladder,

no whoosh of stepping into powder.

They broke aeons of sound drought

with resonant words,

the low pitch of dry swallow,

the iambic thump of heartbeat.